


Up Close and Personal

by everybody_koiya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-02 05:52:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16299365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybody_koiya/pseuds/everybody_koiya
Summary: For you discover things you never knew upon closer inspection.





	1. A Study in (Blush) Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Physical mess on the living room floor can cause even more mess in one's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Pink is intuitive and insightful, showing tenderness and kindness with its empathy and sensitivity."

The first time around, Sherlock's boxes were still scattered all around their living room. And of course they were. With this odd case of serial suicides, pink suitcases and psychotic cabbies still occupying his (and John's) mind, he didn't exactly have the time to unpack.

John came home late that evening. His first visit to Harry since he moved in to Baker Street left him exhausted - especially with his sister's newfound interest in his flatmate. Or rather in John's opinion of him. Another person on the list of people who are convinced the two of them were something they're not. Or Sherlock might be. That didn't matter, as nothing else did in the moment. All John wanted was a nice, relaxing shower, and a night of undisturbed sleep. Then along came Sherlock Holmes.

It took no more than a misplaced box and a few seconds of inattentiveness for John to find himself on top of the consulting detective. The situation was both awkward and hilarious. His poor colleague was only trying to get from the sofa to the dining table and got crushed in the process.

He cracked a grin, shaking his head. That night could only become so much of a disaster. Holmes surely had something clever to say, with a probable undertone of cynism or sarcasm, as per usual. As per usual, but not at that very moment. He didn't seem to have an answer for this.

It's been a week since he moved in with quite possibly the most fascinating man he'd ever had the chance to encounter. But in this time, he'd never seen him flustered, not even caught off-guard. And there he was now, the faintest pink tint on his pale cheeks. His eyes, light as frost, blinked back at him, wide, waiting for a response. Not only did he not have an answer, he was completely lost, waiting for John to move, to speak, to just do _something_. What he wouldn't bet Sherlock was deducing him thoroughly during these very long-seeming seconds.

While staying the same, he was completely different all at once. John found a crack on the exterior that couldn't be touched without the high risk of frostbite. There was a very confused, very... _human_ person behind the mask of a madman, and the doctor felt priviledged to have caught a glimpse of it.

A soft smile on his lips, John decided it would be time to stand up. The moment became far too long, and Sherlock must've found it hard to breathe pressed to the floor by the bodyweight of another person. The consulting detective cleared his throat once he got back on his feet, a gaze fixed on John demanding to be returned.

"Sorry for that," the doctor apologized, to which he only received a vague nod as a response, and more staring. From him, who spoke in paragraphs. This collision must have really messed him up.

 _So that's what it takes to get him distracted or flustered_ , John thought as he closed his bedroom door behind himself later. _Close contact._ He deposited the information in his brain with a chuckle, in case he ever needed it again. And even as he laid in bed, staring at the ceiling before inevitably dozing off, he couldn't get his flatmate's surprised expression out of his mind. And he was sure - if he could be sure about anything concerning Sherlock Holmes -, that he was thinking about him, too, downstairs. Among a thousand other things, probably.

Sunday, 6th of February, 2011. Dr. John Watson saw his colleague in a whole new light.


	2. A Study in Rose Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling hurts. Both literally and figuratively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A red rose without thorns is a symbol of passion, love, and romance. While a red rose with thorns typically exemplifies the struggle and challenges associated with journey of love, meaning that it can be both joyous, fulfilling and delicate, as well as painful and cruel."

Sherlock was far away, walking the corridors of his mind palace, checking every room of each wing and each floor. After all, without keeping all necessary information in a stable order, it wasn't even worth storing them. Things like chemistry, that meant the foundation of the building couldn't be on higher floors; the knowledge he accessed the most often, part of that the map of London, couldn't be locked away in dark little corner rooms he passed by almost every time.

At that very moment, he spent some time in what he deemed his Room of Arts, resembling his old music classroom in primary school on the interior. Sheet music served as the wallpaper, several songs on violin he held dear. Some of them on old, wrinkled paper, others on clean, white ones, bearing the consulting detective's own name as the composer. The desks were pushed to the side, plenty of room to even dance in there. When he needed a break after an exhausting case, that is where he withdrew while his blogger was doing his thing on his laptop.

"Sherlock!" _his_ voice bounced off the walls, echoing all around the room. Adieu, concentration. Oh, John, _dear John_ , and the ever ironic situation. He was always in need of something when Sherlock's in his mind palace, and away somewhere when Sherlock wanted him by his side the most.

What now? John asked him a lot of things. Title suggestions, whether he wanted coffee or tea, to buy something from the store, why were there eyeballs in the microwave, and so on. A thousand options, a million possible answers. No time to consider them all. "Black, two sugars, thank you." The coffee question was the most common, especially at that hour of the morning. Given it was still 9 o'clock. He'd lost count of just how much time he spent doing what he did. The talking continued. He could hear him, but ignored him. Probably not important.

A change of scenery. A change of position. The mind palace disappeared, and threw him back to the Baker Street living room. The red rug below with the ~~ugly~~ _unique_ pattern was coming closer, faster than Sherlock could react. Something was pulling at his ankle; probably John's laptop charger lying underfoot was to blame. It wouldn't have been the first time this had occured, as John frequently left the cable lying around. He'd faceplanted into the rug rather gracefully a few times before. But that very occasion was still different. There were hands now, reaching out, seizing him by the arm to hold him back. In vain.

The doctor, his idiot of a doctor reached too far out of his chair to keep his balance, and there they were again. Sherlock, nose pressing uncomfortably into the floor below, with John on top of him, lying sideways. And oh, did Sherlock thank fate they weren't face-to-face now. His body was betraying him again, blood rushing to his cheeks, heartbeat accelerating as it did back in February. And why? The answer was right there, it just pushed him into the rug-covered floorboards. Love. Strongest, and most pointless of all pointless sentiments.

He thought it was over now. Done with. He locked the feeling in a corner room and hid the key. The metaphorical "butterflies" in his stomach, the smells he associated with him ( _unspecified cologne, medicine and their laundry detergent_ ), the shivers when he ran his eyes over him, or licked his lips. And there was the memory. The moment of looking at his new flatmate and knowing: he shot the cabbie from the opposite building. His thoughts and heart raced each other then, trying to see which of them's faster, because John Watson, the very John Watson he met just a day prior, just killed a man _**for him**_. He thought he hid all this away safely. But the padlock on the handle snapped in halves, and it was only a matter of time the door bursted open.

John clearly enjoyed their situation. First, it was only continuous huffs of air well audible in the quiet room, evolving into giggling, then full-on laughter. With him or at him, Sherlock had no way of knowing. But oblivion sounded quite blissful for once. Just that once. The consulting detective himself let out some embarrassed chuckles. Even though he was squished to the ground face first, he had to admit - there was something quite amusing, maybe even humourous in how they ended up.

"Déjà vu, huh, Sherlock?" he asked, amusement still prominent in his voice.

"Indeed. I definitely do recall being crushed by you before." he shot a comment right back.

"Is it my fault you're practically a skeleton?" There was a bit of edge in John's question. And, as Sherlock had observed before, a riled up John was, by far, the best to conversate with. There was no way he could've left him without an answer.

"And is it mine that mass distributes more evenly in a taller body?" he grinned, uttering his flatmate momentarily silent. Sweet, sweet victory. A real antidote to the sickening sentiments of the heart.

"I'm gonna kill you one day." he muttered, standing up at last. The consulting detective wondered: why did he stay lying so long? The position was surely not so comfortable. Then why? An undecipherable mystery, that man, and he hated him for it. Loathed the feeling of something being right in front of his nose that he couldn't figure out.

A yank on the back of his shirt, and he was on his feet again, facing his flatmate. He spoke not, only looked up at him, his gaze combining the stern Captain Watson, and the loyal John in one, blueish-gray pair of eyes. The silence was practically suffocating him, and there was nothing to do, nowhere to go other than stand and stare him right back. Sherlock Holmes will not admit defeat, not even in love.

 _Say something_ , he nearly shouted at him. One of them had to break the silence before Sherlock lost his mind and did something impulsive. Like... perhaps... _no_. No, kissing John Watson was not an option. Could never be an option. Even though he was right there, gaze expectant, and it would have been so easy, it was out of question. Sherlock had his work as the one lover he would ever need, and John... well, John was straight. At the very least he claimed to be.

"So..." the taller man cleared his throat. "What about that coffee again?" His flatmate only sighed, walking back to their shared desk and taking his seat again.

"There was never any coffee in question, Sherlock." _Damnit_. "I asked you if you could help me with a blog title." he said, giving Sherlock a look with the slightest hint of disappointment.

"Is it about Buckingham Palace?" he inquired, being answered with a nod.

"And I'm guessing 'Holy sheet' won't be an appropriate way to start." he said almost immediately, nonchalant eyes fixed on the screen. So it seems his attire made a deep impression on John. Sherlock walked behind him with a smile of surrender, and looked at the blank post draft on the screen.

Later that afternoon, when the consulting detective returned to his mind palace to finish the check-up, he made a curious discovery. He walked towards the door again, the one with the broken lock. He knew it. With a soft creak, the door opened ever-so-slightly upon approach. "So be it..." he muttered.

Wednesday, the 14th of September, 2011. Sherlock Holmes realised the true nature of his feelings towards Dr. John Watson.


End file.
